


In Good Times and Bad

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [42]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 20:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Hank and Stella go through their first rough incident as a married couple





	In Good Times and Bad

Hank woke to the scent of the beach.  His head was fuzzy and his limbs heavy.  He could feel a slice of sun hitting his cheek, making it twitch involuntarily.  When he pulled his eyes open enough, he realized the sun was just the bedside lamp and the beach was just Stella’s new lotion, some sort of cocoa butter thing that reminded his nose of Venice.  When his ears finally caught up with the rest of his waking body, it was abundantly clear that it was still raining, as it had been for four days straight.

 

“Why’reyup?” he slurred, gathering his strength to roll and flop onto his back.

 

“It’s nearly nine,” Stella answered.  She was sitting up, knees bent, working lotion into her calves as she read the Sunday paper which was spread out in front of her feet.

 

He tried to sit up, but his bladder screamed in protest and he groaned.  “I have to piss like a fucking racehorse,” he said.

 

“As always, your descriptions are most vivid, my love.”

 

Hank managed to drag himself out of bed and to the bathroom.  He braced one arm against the wall to lay his head on and emptied his bladder, moaning in near ecstasy at the relief it brought.  When he finished, he tucked himself back into his boxer-briefs, scratched the itch out of his ribs and took a look in the mirror.  His eyes were bloodshot and his morning stubble was peppered with an alarming amount of grey around the jaw.

 

“I’m too old to drink anymore,” he rasped, bending to splash cool water on his face.

 

“What?” Stella called.

 

“Nothing.”  He ran his tongue over grimy teeth with his cottony tongue and made a face at himself.  The toothbrush was like a balm to his aching gums and he spent longer than necessary massaging last night’s overuse of whiskey off his teeth and out of his mouth.

 

When he finished, he hovered in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, elbows against the frame, watching his wife.  Her back was mostly to him, but he had a nice view of her thigh as her silk robe was pulled high to lotion her legs.  He never tired of watching someone so extraordinary to him do something so mundane. He also appreciated the unguarded and gentle movements of her hands, treating herself the way she deserved to be treated, though she might disagree with him.

 

“Are you going to stand there all day and watch? Stella asked, without even turning around.

 

“You have eyes in the back of your head?”

 

“Or very good peripheral vision.”

 

Hank shuffled back across the room and flopped down on the bed again, carelessly crinkling Stella’s newspaper with his elbow.  “Sorry,” he mumbled as she tugged it free.  “How are you not hungover?”

 

“Only one of us drank their weight in whiskey last night.”

 

“Mmph.  Sex is good for headaches isn’t it?”

 

“So is aspirin.”

 

Hank squinted one eye open as Stella moved her lotioned hand inside her robe to rub her chest. He grunted slightly and shifted closer to her so that his head bumped her hip.

 

“That’s my job,” he said.

 

“You appear to be a bit indisposed.”

 

Hank grunted again, his face smashed between the bed and her hip.  Stella pulled her hand out of her robe and rubbed her hands together before caressing his back with a light touch.

 

“Feels good,” he murmured.

 

Stella turned the page of her newspaper with one hand and walked her fingers down Hank’s spine with the other.  She massaged his tailbone with her thumb and then slipped her hand inside his underwear, giving his left ass cheek a generous squeeze.

 

Hank exaggerated a groan of appreciation and rolled onto his back as Stella pulled her hand free.

 

“You’re not gonna do the front?” he asked.

 

“Do your own front.”

 

“I don’t think I should tolerate such sauciness.”

 

“Mmhm.”  Stella turned another page of her newspaper.

 

Hank rolled back onto his stomach and up onto his elbows.  He tipped his head into Stella’s lap and nosed the closure of her robe.  She absentmindedly sifted her fingers through his hair as he worked at the knot of her sash with his teeth.

 

“I was thinking of having French toast for breakfast,” she said.

 

“I was thinking of having you.”

 

“Bacon, as well.  Orange juice.”

 

“You taste like coconut,” he mumbled against the skin of her belly, having managed to work his lips into the part of her robe, though the sash never budged for him.

 

Stella held his head as he moved up along her sternum and he heard her turn another page.  His tongue drifted along the curve under her breast.

 

“Oh,” Stella said, and gasped.  Her fingers tightened in Hank’s hair.

 

“Finally,” he mumbled, stretching his neck to get more of her breast in his mouth.

 

“Stop,” she said, pulling on his hair.

 

He pulled away, vision swimming in and out on her face as he tried to look up at her.  “What’s wrong?”

 

Stella’s eyes moved quickly over the newspaper, her brows drawing closer and closer together.  Hank backed off of her and got up on his hands and knees to peer over her shoulder.

 

“Oh, shit,” he said.  “Stella…”

 

“It’s fine,” she answered with a shake of her head.  She closed the newspaper and leaned back towards the pillows on her side, slipping her arm under Hank’s to draw him with her.  “I apologize for stopping you.”

 

Hank went willingly with her, propped on his side with one leg over her hips.  She curled her hand around his neck and brought him down to kiss her.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, gently rubbing his bottom lip against hers, fighting the pull of her hand.

 

“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” she answered, squeezing his neck.

 

“We should, though.”

 

“There’s nothing to discuss.”  She hooked her leg over his hip and arched her back just a little to rub her pelvis into his.

 

Usually, Hank would be closer to ready at that point but the hangover, combined with the news he’d just read, had acted as the cerebral equipment of a bucket of cold water on his hormones.  Even when Stella reached down to try to coax him into arousal, his brain felt disconnected from his body and it didn’t do much for him.

 

“Stella…”

 

“I thought you wanted to fuck,” she said, her tone laced with bitterness.

 

“Stop, please.”

 

Stella slipped her hand out of Hank’s underwear and then went completely still.  She turned her eyes up to the ceiling, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.  He put his hand on her cheek, but she didn’t turn towards him, so he moved a little higher into her line of sight.  At first, she refused to look at him, but then she finally shifted her gaze to his.

 

For just a moment, Stella’s nostrils flared, her lips pressed more forcefully together, but then her chin began to wobble slightly and her throat moved reflexively as she swallowed.  She squeezed her eyes shut as though she was in pain.

 

“It’s okay,” Hank said, lowering his head a little to kiss her closed eyes.  

 

“I’m not crying,” she whispered through the waver in her voice.

 

“You can if you want to.”

 

“She’s not worth the energy.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Let me up.”

 

Hank placed another kiss on Stella’s cheek and shifted his weight enough that she could slip away from him, even though he wished she wouldn’t.  She pushed herself off the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.  He waited, listening, but there was silence.  A minute passed and then the taps came on for the shower.  Careful not to make too much noise, Hank opened the newspaper and thumbed through the pages until he came to what he was looking for.  With one ear tuned to the sounds from the bathroom, he read the obituary for Stella’s mother with a new layer of hate in his heart for the woman who didn’t even have the decency to let her own daughter know that she’d died.

 

“Fucking cuntface,” Hank whispered to himself.

 

*****

 

While Stella showered, Hank found some painkillers and guzzled a few glasses of water.  He felt decent enough after making a trip downstairs to the kitchen for the water to throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.  He even thought he might go pick up breakfast for them at the cafe around the corner.  He’d get Stella the French toast she wanted, but he was in the mood for huevos rancheros.  

 

He had pulled his shoes on and was looking for his wallet when Stella came downstairs, silk blouse and slacks on, attache over her shoulder and overcoat draped over her arm.  He eyed her as she placed her things on the barstool before the counter and then came around to start a pot of coffee.

 

“I was just about to go get breakfast,” Hank said.

 

“I’ll pick something up on my way,” she answered.

 

“On the way where?”

 

“To work.”

 

“It’s Sunday.”

 

“I have things I need to get done.”  She pulled her travel cup from off the shelf and opened the refrigerator for the creamer.

 

“The funeral’s on Wednesday.”

 

“Yes, I saw that.”

 

“Are we gonna go?”

 

“I have a meeting.”

 

“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure work gives you time off for shit like this.”

 

“They do.”

 

“Well…”

 

“I’ve no desire to go.”

 

“But…”

 

Hank stopped and just watched Stella go about making her coffee like it was an ordinary day.  He’d dealt with her shoving emotional crap to the side before but he thought they were past that.  He folded his arms across her chest from behind where she stood at the coffeemaker.  She gave an exasperated sigh.

 

“You’re overreacting,” she said.

 

“I’m not the one going to work on a Sunday.”

 

“You didn’t even like her.”

 

“No, I didn’t.”

 

“Then why are you behaving this way?”

 

“Because it was a fucking cruel way to find out.  Because you didn’t get to say the things you might want to say.”

 

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

 

Hank sighed into Stella’s hair.  “When my father died-”

 

“I don’t need sympathy,” she interrupted, twisting her shoulders to break Hank’s hold on her.  “I don’t need your anecdotes or your indignance on my behalf either.”

 

Hank backed away from Stella a few paces.  She kept her back to him, pouring her coffee.

 

“Maybe I’m indignant on my own behalf,” he said.

 

“Go write.  Go be productive.  Go back to bed and nurse your hangover.”

 

“I blame that woman for turning you so cold, that’s why I’m indignant.  I think it’s her fault you have this huge fucking problem with accepting comfort from someone who loves you.  Fuck, it’s her fucking fault you have a problem accepting the fact that someone does actually love you.”

 

Stella didn’t respond.  She poured creamer into her coffee and added a spoonful of sugar.  Hank came back up against her and took her wrists, holding her hands down lightly on the counter.

 

“I’m your husband,” he said.  “Not some guy you just fucked in a bar and accidentally brought home with you for a night.”

 

“You were, though.”

 

“And I’m going to just pretend you’re not trying to erase our entire history with that remark.”

 

“What the fuck do you want me to say, Hank?”

 

“I don’t know, Stella, but I don’t want you to act like it’s all fine and peachy fucking keen that you had to read about your mother’s death in the newspaper.  I don’t want you to suddenly go to work on your day off to avoid the issue.  I don’t know what I want you to say, but I want you to talk to me.”

 

“But, I don’t have anything to talk about.”

 

“It would be so fucking great if I believed you, wouldn’t it?”  

 

Hank pressed his hands down onto hers to push himself away from her and the counter.  He could feel the flare of anger rise up in him, but he knew that lashing out wasn’t going to solve anything.  As it was, he was fighting all his natural impulses to just explode and walk away, but he had worked very hard in the past few years not to fall back into destructive patterns.  He didn’t want to fight with Stella the way he’d fought with Karen, following each other from room to room, picking at open wounds with each other.  All that had done was make the scars deeper and more painful as time went on.  He knew there was a fine line between supporting and needling, but that Stella always needed a push.  It was just hard to know when he’d gone too far and when he hadn’t gone far enough.

 

Stella bowed her head for a few moments, shoulders slumped just slightly.  The kitchen was silent.  She finally took a deep breath and screwed the cap onto her travel mug.  Hank didn’t step out of her way as she tried to pass, and she had to turn to slip by to pick up her jacket and bag from the barstool.  

 

“Have a good day at work, honey,” Hank said, as her heels tapped the refrain of her departure.

 

*****

 

There were a lot of things Hank could’ve done after Stella walked out the door.  He could’ve sat down to write.  He could’ve called Karen.  He could’ve taken a walk.  He could’ve gone back to bed.  He could’ve gone to the pub and drowned his anger in hurt in whiskey.  He didn’t do any of that though.  He went upstairs and read the obituary three more times, getting insulted all over again that not only did no one inform Stella that her mother had died, she wasn’t even acknowledged in the half-page biography.

 

“Survived by her loving husband Albert,” Hank read.  “Beloved stepmother of Clementine and grandmother of Imogen.  What a crock of shit.”

 

Twenty minutes couldn’t have passed when Hank heard the sound of the front door closing downstairs.  He frowned and closed the newspaper.  When he heard footsteps on the stairs, he shoved the paper under the bed.  Stella appeared in the doorway, attache dangling off her shoulder.

 

“What happened?” Hank asked.

 

“I didn’t go,” she answered.

 

“Come here.”

 

Stella let her attache drop to the floor and Hank slid to the edge of the bed.  She unbuttoned her coat on the way over and he took hold of her hips when she got close enough.

 

“Forgive me,” she said.

 

Hank reached down and put his hand on the back of her left ankle, coaxing her foot up so he could remove her boot.  He pulled it off for her and she put a light hand on his shoulder for balance so he could remove the other.  He stood then, a full head taller than her, looking down while she looked up.  He pushed the coat off her shoulders and then put his arm around her waist, guiding her down to the unmade bed.

 

Stella lay down on her side and Hank crawled over her to settle behind her.  He tangled their legs together and settled his arm across her chest.  For a few moments, he ran the top of his foot up and down the side of her calf.

 

“You were going to tell me something about your father earlier,” she said.  “I’d like to hear it now, if you don’t mind.”

 

“It...I was just going to tell you that I remember feeling irrational anger when my father died.  Angry, but knowing it was irrational, but still just angry that he left when certain things were unresolved between us.  We weren’t estranged, but we didn’t speak often either.  He left me a letter, addressing some of our issues, but then I was just angry all over again because...because I wasn’t able to respond.  It took a long time to accept it.”

 

Stella didn’t initially respond.  While he waited, Hank nuzzled the back of her neck and moved his hand down to rub her thigh.  

 

“I don’t believe I have a word in my vocabulary for how I feel right now,” Stella finally said, her voice low and soft. 

 

“Try.”

 

“It’s difficult.”

 

“I know.”

 

Stella turned her head to look back at Hank, though her eyes drifted away almost immediately.  She stayed turned towards him, however.  “When I was away at school,” she said.  “I considered myself to be one of the lucky ones not to have a mother that meddled in her affairs.  She never called to inquire about my studies or anything else for that matter.”

 

“Had she ever?”

 

“No.  I didn’t expect anything from her.  Sending me away was as much for her as it was for me.  We didn’t really know how to be in the same room together.”

 

Hank’s thoughts drifted to Becca for a few moments.  He’d never went more than a few days without speaking to his daughter.  Though she was an adult now and he didn’t get to see her as frequently as he’d like, he couldn’t imagine consciously choosing to not be a part of her life.  

 

“I think the only thing we’ve ever had in common was that was we loved the same man,” Stella said.  “And it’s also what kept us apart.”

 

“I think I might have told you this before, but that’s always been her loss.  You know that, don’t you?”

 

“Yet I’m the one who suffered for it.”

 

Hank’s heart felt like it had been squeezed in a vice.  Stella had never admitted to the affect that her childhood had on her.  Mostly she played cool and indifferent to the things she’d faced, but the scars, both invisible and visible, told a different story.  He cupped her cheek and she shifted her hips to turn onto her back and look up at him.

 

“I’m not angry,” she said.  “I’m not sad.  I don’t feel that we had unfinished business.  I knew where she stood.  I was maybe six or seven when she told me that she’d only had a child because my father wanted one, but she’d just assumed he would’ve outgrow me like a forgotten toy and they could pass me off to nannies and go about their own lives.”

 

“What the fuck?” Hank murmured, his face scrunching involuntarily in disgust.  “I mean, seriously, what the fuck?”

 

“You weren’t wrong in what you told me this morning.  I did often wonder who could love me if my own mother didn’t.”

 

“I do.”

 

Stella reached up and put her hand on Hank’s face.  “Yes, you do.”

 

He kissed her.  Just a gentle press of his lips to hers followed by a slow caress of her cheek with the tip of his nose.  She sighed, her warm breath passing intimately over his face.

 

“Perhaps what I feel is guilt,” she whispered.

 

“You have nothing to be guilty of.”

 

“When one’s mother dies, isn’t one supposed to feel something?”

 

“She was never your mother.”

 

“It was the shock.  Of seeing her name and not feeling a Goddamn thing.”

 

“Let’s do our Sunday brunch.  Let me buy you those gloves you’ve been eying at the boutique by the Metro.  Let’s sit in the park if it’s not too cold or rainy and make up life stories about strangers.  Let’s come back home and fuck in the entryway because our bed is too far away.  Let’s do all of it, or none of it, but let’s not waste any more energy on someone who never deserved it.”

 

Stella traced Hank’s bottom lip with her thumb and then nodded.  He started to move away, but she wrapped her hand around his neck and kept him down.

 

“Let’s have Becca here soon,” she said.  “Or go to New York.”

 

“You’ll get no objection from me, but...why?”

 

“I miss her.”

 

Hank looked over at the clock on the nightstand.  “It’s too early in New York.  Let’s call her at brunch.”

 

“Let me change from work clothes.”

 

“Do I get to watch?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Hank grinned and Stella sat up from under him.  She was still for just a few moments, her back to him, legs folded over the side of the bed.  Before she got up, she turned and reached for his hand, folding their fingers together as she raised his fist to her lips.  She held his hand there at her mouth, eyes closed, and then she rested her cheek over his knuckles for a few moments.  He put his hand on her back and then she opened her eyes and slowly let go of his hand to get up and get dressed.

 

The End.


End file.
